


Day of Matrons

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Mother's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6857413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He watches his mother laugh too high and too long at a poor joke. He watches the elite of the surface dwarves swarm, like vultures.</p>
<p>If this is what being a proper Tethras is, he thinks, then perhaps he needs to work on a new definition. Words were easy, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day of Matrons

> **_i: Varric, fifteen_ **

He is _trying_. That _has_ to count for something.

His mother is holding a feast - what the humans would call a salon, but when he had tried out that word under her roof it had sunk like a lead balloon in the middle of the dinner table and he had kept it to himself since. He hates the gathering of the well-to-do and wealthy. They look at him with curious eyes, his particular fashion choices odd for a dwarf. His mother swoops down upon him, tugging his shirt back over his chest despite the observers.

“Surface born,” she says in that tone that Varric knows all too well, that tone that drips disappointment. “It can’t be helped, you know?” And then she leaves him to entertain another face, another purse, and Varric watches the attention shift.

He is glad of it. He does not want to be in the middle of it all, like her.

Bartrand claps a hand on his shoulder, making him jump.

“Your beard’s coming through nicely, little brother. Almost dwarfy.”

Varric hates the itchiness of it, resists the urge to scratch his face raw.

“Your clothes look ridiculous, though,” he adds with a smirk.

“I had them made with Father’s colours,” Varric points out, voice cracking - the betrayal of puberty.

“Colours don’t matter a rot when they’re human-cut,” counters Bartrand. “Don’t you _want_ to be a proper Tethras? Is that why you keep upsetting Mother?”

“She upsets herself,” he mutters, thinking of the seven empty bottles under her bed. “I’m trying,” he adds, louder.

Bartrand sighs. “Try _harder_. I’ll be away more in the summer, making deals to win Lady Raella’s hand. I can’t come home to a list of grievances from either of you.”

Varric does not pout. It takes a lot of effort.

“You’re fifteen now. You’ve had an easy ride, but at your age I -”

“Yeah, yeah. You’d made the family worthwhile again, you keep reminding me.” Varric shrugs him off. “I’m a Tethras. I’ll try harder.”

“You’d better do.”

Varric watches Bartrand move away, watches him smile as Raella Dace approaches. He watches his mother laugh too high and too long at a poor joke. He watches the elite of the surface dwarves swarm, like vultures.

If this is what being a proper Tethras is, he thinks, then perhaps he needs to work on a new definition. Words were easy, after all.

* _  
_

> **_ii: Cassandra, eight_ **

It is her first Day of Matrons without her mother.

The palace is adorned with small, delicate flowers - Cassandra should know their names, but her lessons have been something of a sticking point as of late. She resents the time apart from her brother - _her family, her blood,_ she cried as a governess once again dragged her from the training yard. She resents the implication that she could not follow his path in life, that being a girl - a woman, one day - meant she could not do as he did.

Still, she sits in the drawing room with the book open in her lap, and admires the flowers anyway. They are pretty to look at, a sweet smell in the air that only grew when a servant brushed past them, and they reminded her of her mother.

Her mother. Lady Tigana, the traitor. Her mother.

“Cassie?”

Her vision blurs, and she wipes at her eyes with the heavy cuffs of her sleeves. “Anthony, are we traitors?”

“No,” he says, taking the seat next to her and pulling her into his side. “We’re not traitors.” He swallows loudly. “And neither were Mother and Father, not really. But we say that they are, because everyone else believes it.”

“Why?”

“Because they were the side that won, so they get to write the history books.”

She thinks about this, before scrunching up her face. “They aren’t in the Necropolis, are they? They weren’t allowed in without heads.”

“No. But it’s alright. She’s watching us from the Maker’s side, with Father. They’re together.”

Cassandra sniffs. “I miss mama,” she whispers, and Anthony’s arm tightens around her.

“Me too, Cassie.”

*

> **_iii: Cassandra, thirty-eight_ **

The Inquisitor is young, and Cassandra at times regrets putting her into the position.

She could not escape the mantle of Herald - the mark on her hand, the Anchor, saw to that fact. But leader of the Inquisition? No, that had been _their_ doing, the small council who oversaw so much. They had pushed her, and now her shoulders bore the weight of an army of believers.

Still, her youthful optimism remained at times, as evidenced by today’s ridiculous argument - the last of the cream cakes, a gift from an Orlesian well-wisher.

“Cassandra! Sera ate the last one! I was saving it -”

“Inquisitor, you know as well as I that sweet things meant to be ‘saved’ will often be ‘liberated’ by the woman who operates as a Red Jenny.”

Varric, sat on her left, grins. “She’ll liberate anything she takes a shine to, you said it yourself when she ‘borrowed’ Sparkler’s cloak.”

The Inquisitor pouts. “Can’t I just -”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “No, Inquisitor, you may _not_ declare war over a frilly cake.”

“But _Ma!_ ”

Varric laughs, loud and free, and she can feel her cheeks pinken at the endearment.

“That is my final word, young lady,” she says sternly, though her mouth quirks into a smile. Varric’s laughter doubles, and the Inquisitor grins despite her own blushes, before she adopts a dutiful pose and nods.

“You’re right, Ma. Sorry.”

“Now go and find the Lady Josephine, she requested your presence two bells ago.”

The Inquisitor scrambles to leave, and Varric nudges Cassandra’s arm.

“You know, Seeker, you’re actually quite _fun_ when you’re laughing with the rest of us.”

She hides her smile behind the rim of her cup.

“Shut up, dwarf.”

*

> **_iv: Varric, forty-five_ **

Being Viscount is tiring.

He would have thought that being sat at a desk for half the day would take the edge off, but it is just as tiring as walking the city, and when his feet finally bring him home late in the evening, he is glad of the respite.

He is also glad of the woman tending to the fire, goblet of wine for him in her hands. He is _definitely_ glad of her.

“You are _covered_ in petals,” she drawls, leaning up from her kneeling position. He cups her face, kissing her sweetly on the lips, before taking the cup from her.

“Spring, Seeker. All the trees are shedding. Have you even _been_ outside today?”

She rolls her eyes. “ _I_ have been busy trying to right the house after Hawke’s visit last night.”

A pang of guilt shots through him. “Sorry. You could have left it, I would have -”

“I could not and you know this,” she points out, but she smiles as she rests a hand on his cheek. “It is no matter. All is well?”

“There’s still a lot of work before the roads will be finished, but -”

A high wail pierces the evening, and Cassandra laughs as he starts, a hand on his shoulder.

“Let me. It will be feeding time anyway.”

Varric watches her head towards their bedroom, hesitating. He wanted to follow, wanted to be with his wife and child, to revel in this family he had found for himself… but the Seeker would shoo him away, reluctant to let him see her singing in her native tongue. Sure enough, her soft voice can just about be heard through the house, and Varric sits by the door, smiling into his goblet as he listens.

He would _never_ have foreseen this, never. His lover, his wife, mother to a beautiful girl, his daughter - it is overwhelming at times, the love that he feels for them, for himself. That he could have come so far, through so much, and still been enough for someone…

The singing stops, and he pads through to the bedroom, smile soft as he looks on. Cassandra has the girl over her shoulder, rubbing her back gently.

“She’s growing again,” Varric murmurs.

“You think she will be more like me, I can see it in your eyes.”

“Yeah,” he says with a smile. “I can’t wait.”

The babe belches, and Cassandra laughs, kissing her cheek. “Good girl, _such_ a good girl, so very unlike your father.”

“Hey!”

Her smile is fond. “Well, perhaps I am unkind. Come, sit with us. She misses you.”

“And I her.”

They nestle together, backs against the headboard and his girls curling against him. He regards his daughter, his precious daughter, and thinks about her mother, about the mothers they had lost.

“I can’t promise much,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead, “but you’ll _never_ be alone, little princess. Never.”


End file.
